


Fret not

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1485541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the asoiafkinkmeme on LiveJournal.  The prompt was <i>after Theon returns to Pyke, it turns out that Euron is there already and Balon is still alive. Euron takes Theon under his wing.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fret not

“Fret not, my boy,” his nuncle says, graceful fingers brushing Theon’s cheek, trailing down dried tear streaks, thumb idly caressing the bruise, now spreading, flowering a livid shade of purple from his father’s open hand. “Balon always was…old-fashioned.” Euron’s lips whisper comforting assurances into his ear, blue-stained flesh conveying a succor that he had long since despaired of, a sympathy that Theon had never once encountered in his northern exile, and a regard that had not been ably come by in the strange shores of Pyke. 

But he stiffens, pulling back from the touch. It makes his skin crawl, the warm sensation of Euron’s hand on his face, flesh untaxed, unmarred by heavy labor, and the whisper of breath, slightly sour from Shade of the Evening, that brushes against his neck. “I am not your boy,” he says, the authority that he had hoped to imbue his words with faltering as his nuncle’s face slowly stretched into a smile, “but your prince.”

“Of course,” Euron returns, bowing his head in a nod to Greenlander customs. It is more a mockery than a sign of homage. “My prince.” He bends slightly at the waist. “How soon I forget.” He takes Theon’s hand in his own, and once more the boy is struck by the odd contrast between the touch of the smooth skin and the tales of bloody horrors that had reached his ears as a child.

_Our nuncle Euron bathes in the blood of savages from the Summer Isles and Greenlander thralls_ , Maron and Rodrik had whispered to him when his father and mother paid no mind, _They say he has seen the kraken and laughed in its face…they say he has lain with dragons…they say…_

____But Theon shakes his head, forcing himself to forget the childish nonsense forged in the minds of long-dead brothers. He is the one who remains, the one will one day sit the Saltstone Chair, a reward born more of circumstance and luck than any great feat._ _ _ _

____“You will do well to remember in future,” he says, his voice deepening with assumed authority, and he watches his nuncle’s face for any further signs of mockery. Theon has been insulted enough._ _ _ _

____But Euron only conceals his teeth and smiles, close-lipped. It is more a smirk than anything else, but it is far better than harsh words and insults._ _ _ _

____And his nuncle was not the one who mortgaged his freedom to Ned Stark._ _ _ _

____*_ _ _ _

____Aboard the Silence, he is free from Asha’s mocking jests and Balon’s iron scowls of disapproval. He can bear the snide expression on Euron’s face when his fingers fumble with sailor’s knots, when his balance fails with the pitch of the deck when they take to open seas. But despite the gleam of that bright blue eye, and the twist of the equally blue lips, there are no insults to shoulder. When he gets his sealegs and begins to forget his old landlocked life, there are lessons to learn._ _ _ _

____The Old Ways are here, stained with blood and perverted with witchcraft, although Theon does not remember much of them beyond a set of well-intentioned words and a god that sleeps below the waves. He learns to keep his hand steady while cutting the tongue from a thrall, and to hold back his gorge as the new crewman gags on the blood that gushes from his mouth before the wound is cauterized. He learns how to hold down the putrid drink that his nuncle claims gives visions, and although he can see no more than murky outlines in a mist, he knows that with time, it will change, and his eyes will open with practice. And he sits silently while Euron speaks with the warlocks in the hold of his vessel, his secret Qartheen prize, their shaved heads and dead staring eyes the most eldritch thing he’s seen in his short life. They run spidery fingers over the velvet nap of the finery that he continues to affect, tracing the delicate embroidery of the kraken whose arms spread over his chest, the work of a young Lysene whore who Euron had gifted to him on his last nameday, her talents in the bedroom equaled by her skill with a needle. He’d fucked the girl while she worked, spoiling her craft many times over, and instead of taking the lash to her back as his nuncle had blithely suggested, he’d thrown the flawed garments overboard, laughing as they disappeared into the murky waters._ _ _ _

____*_ _ _ _

____It is not long until his father dies, plunging off a rickety bridge into the angry waters that beat at the jagged islands of his homeland. Theon is away at the time, reaving the Braavosi coastline with Euron, with little to show for it save a lavalier taken from the neck of a now-dead waterdancer who’d snickered at him as he came ashore. He lies naked in his bed, clad in nothing save the golden trinket, playing idly with it, enjoying the cold feel of metal against his bare chest. His stomach is full of too much red wine, another conquest, and it warms him against the chill of the salt air that leaks through the porthole. Everything is a delightful blur, and so he is not troubled when the door of his cabin creaks open, nor is he worried by the figure of his nuncle, his nudity barely concealed by a wolfskin pilfered from a holdfast along the Rills some time past. They have few secrets, he and Euron, and he is not concerned when Euron enters, barring the door, and casting his meager clothing aside._ _ _ _

____“Such finery,” Euron says, rubbing the crystal pendant between two fingers. They brush against Theon’s chest, and he closes his eyes. “Sometimes the Iron Price is well worth the effort, is it not?”_ _ _ _

____Theon smiles thinly. He recalls another time when hands other than these tore golden chains asunder and threw them aside as if they were offal. “It has its merits, I admit.”_ _ _ _

____“And I see the wine well suited you,” Euron kicks the spent bottle and it rolls beneath the bed. “A fine vintage, almost worth the journey east.” He had presented Theon with a crate of the vintage a few nights past, and he’d saved it, wanting to commemorate the conclusion of their journey with the costly drink._ _ _ _

____Euron climbs onto the bed then, letting the necklace drop to nestle among the sparse hairs on Theons’ chest. His hand ghosts over his belly, resting there momentarily before sliding below the blankets._ _ _ _

____“Your father,” Euron says softly and his face is grave._ _ _ _

____“What of my father?” Theon returns, annoyance beginning to spoil his satisfied mood. As the ship bobs gently in the waves, the empty bottle that he had earlier cast aside clinks gently against the bedpost. “That old fool.”_ _ _ _

____“Yes, the very same,” Euron says, and there is mirth in his voice, mirth below the gravity that he tries yet fails to convey. “But I am sorry, my prince.”_ _ _ _

____“Sorry for what? For bringing him up in the first place?” Theon shakes his head, reclining on the bed. He feels his nuncle’s hand teasing at his cock, and it begins to stir. He laughs._ _ _ _

____“For bearing such tragic news,” Euron says, stroking him, long languid caresses that cause Theon’s breath, despite himself, to hitch in his throat._ _ _ _

____“Tragic?” Theon says, annoyed at the distraction. He prefers to concentrate on the sensation of warm hands on his body and the building tension. He has no desire to brood on fathers and old fools. “Father is nothing if not tragic. Is he joining us here? I can think of nothing worse.” He snickers but the laugh is caught short by a gasp. Euron’s grip tightens and his touch quickens._ _ _ _

____“It would be most difficult, my pet,” Euron murmurs. His voice is far away. “He is at the bottom of the sea. He is with his god.” He licks his lips at the relevation. “And now, child, you are my king.”_ _ _ _

____Theon pays no mind, seeming not to hear the words. Everything is a red haze and he cares for nothing save his nuncle’s insistent hands and the poisoned wine pulsing through his veins, clouding his thoughts and obliterating his cares. He moans as Euron takes him into his mouth, head lolling onto the pillow, eyes closing._ _ _ _


End file.
